


Evince

by OverMyFreckledBody



Series: Soul the Color of Poppies [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Animate Object, Chess, Claudia Stilinski Feels, Fluff, Healing Derek Hale, M/M, Magical Claudia Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 22:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13913844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: e·vinceverb (formal)reveal the presence of (a quality or feeling).be evidence of; indicate.--Imbuing things is another intimate magical process. It's not all that surprising anymore that Derek is involved as well.





	Evince

**Author's Note:**

> sooo this is gonna be part of a series now. so if you leave a comment that indulges me on a part you really liked and/or are looking forward to, I could possibly write that out
> 
> for example, Ishtar12 commented:  
> " _Honestly these comment fics would make a fun sequel, it sounds like Derek’s POV has a lot to offer_ "
> 
> so this was born.
> 
> [music i was listening to](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G049LeVG6BI)
> 
> (and thanking turqii as always <3)

            This time, when Derek crawls into Stiles’ room, he doesn’t appear to be doing any magic. At least, not at first.

 

            He’s sitting on his work table, which is cleared from anything that typically sits on it, aside from a large, wooden chessboard. Stiles himself is also sitting atop the desk, legs crisscrossed over his lap, with an elbow on his knee and a fist tucked under his chin in thought. Though the window makes noise when it’s opened and closed, Stiles doesn’t look up at Derek’s entrance. The chessboard retains all of his attention, and the hyper-focus he has on would have almost been bizarre if Derek hadn’t seen him get sucked into research,  online games, or plans before.

 

            He moves to sit in Stiles’ computer chair, watching, without saying anything. After a moment, Stiles’ arm slowly moves out and he and moves a piece, a rook, somewhere else on the board. Barely a second after he’s started to retrieve his hand, another piece, of a different color, the other side, _moves_.

 

            All on its own, a knight lifts a few inches over the board and floats over to its desired place – the square the rook just landed on. It nudges into place on the square, and the rook then is lifted off the board and drifts in the air to the side of the board, where a drawer is drawn, and then is set inside, before the drawer closes. Stiles doesn’t seem phased by this at all, instead nodding as if he anticipated that move. Derek watches, still wordless, eyes darting over every detail he can manage, though nothing changes – as if the board is waiting for its own turn again.

 

            Stiles’ hand sweeps over the tops of his pieces and several times it starts for a particular piece, before changing route at the last second and picking a different one. He never seems to pick the most obvious choice, or the next after that. Those are the ones his hands reach for, but they’re never the moves he makes. Instead, the ones he picks all seem to be ones that further his loss, rather than a victory.

 

            Eventually, the knight makes its way to a square within range of the king. Before its turn ends, it is lifted and then dropped, making a knocking sound that Derek assumes is meant to sound as a _check_. Stiles nods, as if the board, sentient or not, can see him, before deliberately making a move that gets his king knocked off the board. Once his king is offed, the knight taps the board three times before the rest of the pieces float off and into their drawers.

 

            Stiles continues to stare at the chessboard even after it goes still and rubs a hand over his chin, but finally decides to address Derek. “My mother,” he starts, pausing to take in a shaky breath, his hand dropping to thumb at the wood. “Imbued this thing with her magic when she was younger. Younger than me – I don’t know when, maybe thirteen or so.” He stops again, dragging a fingernail through a scratch in the surface, and a glance at his eyes show that they may not be misty, but they are glazed over; Stiles clearly being in a different place. “I once asked her why this, of all things, and she told me simply that her grandmother had carved the whole thing for her. Maybe that was why. Or maybe she just wanted to get better at chess.”

 

            He laughs, and it’s not bitter, not quite, but seemed to be filled with something else, something almost longing. It ached with something that rang at the same pitch as something deeper inside of Derek, something that ached in him too. “She never really did.”

 

            Ah. So that explains the purposeful moves – the ones not to win, but to find the quickest way to get the other colored pieces to his own king.

 

            “Imbuing things is kind of a strange process,” Stiles tells him, now dragging a finger along the edges of the board. “It’s like putting a piece of your own soul into something else, I guess. That’s the easiest way of explaining it, anyway. My mom couldn’t interact with the chessboard ever again, and she could never get that piece back, so…” He sighs, and he sounds tired, but not from talking, or being awake. Just a state of being – tired. “So, it’s like it’s a piece that she left behind – like I can still play with her.”

 

            He changes tracks in the next breath, “I want to do that. I want to imbue something. I don’t know what, but I know it has to be something important to me, something that people can touch and talk to, something I can make come to life, just like this. And I want it to be something loved, something old, something I’ve had for years and used often. I’m just –”

 

            He cuts himself off and shifts in his place on the desk and then his voice drops, lower, a whisper, “I’m just scared… I’m scared of giving something so personal up, and for forever. But I’m also too scared of not leaving anything behind, not getting to do what my mom could do for me.”

 

            _I’m scared of leaving too soon,_ goes unsaid. _Not leaving behind anything for anyone to remember me by_.

 

            Derek understands, in a bitter way. He cannot forget the personalities, the lives of his lost loved ones. But he can forget the details. And he has.

 

            Something like this, to touch and remember his family most by, would have helped so much.

 

            Derek doesn’t have anything he can think to say, anything that wouldn’t be empty. There’s no point in empty, really.

 

            Stiles doesn’t seem to mind that, or the silence. He takes in a deep breath and an almost fond smile uncurls on his lips, making the quiet just a little more comfortable with its presence. Then, still with a content uptick of the corners of his mouth, he reaches forward into the drawers and sets up for another game. His first move is to push the pawn in the right corner of the king up one square.

 

            Even Derek knows that leaving your king open like that isn’t a winning move.

 

* * *

 

 

            Sometime after, Derek comes home to something sitting on his table. He steps forward to investigate, cautious until he smells the scents covering it – the scent of the Preserve and _Stiles_.

 

            It appears to be a small machine – one originally powered by either a cord or batteries. It’s made of a hard, gray material with darkened ridges and scrapes. Without color, it’s harder to make out, but after shifting it around in his hands, he can tell that it’s supposed to be a pile of rocks, with a dragon resting atop. With a little more poking, he also realizes that originally it was a waterfall, recycling the water to the top and having it cascade down the rocks, alongside the dragon that curls around the mountain. Within the pool for the water at the bottom is three stools for what he assumes is for candles, but Stiles didn’t seem to leave any behind. There is, however, a note, and a vial of what looks to be water – and smells to be from the river that runs through the woods.

 

            On the paper (which seems to be a piece of notebook paper with edges that aren’t perfectly square, but look to be cut with scissors rather than just ripped), reads in black pen that is weaker in some places than others, _Because you understand_.

 

            Derek stops at that, head thinking over what it could mean, _understand_. The hurt? The loss? The desire to not hurt others with one’s own departure?

 

            Stiles’ magic?

 

            His eyebrows furrow a touch and he keeps going, though the message is quite brief. _Just put it somewhere it won’t fall off and pour the water in. Don’t worry about having to clean it or anything. I tried to get water that would remind you of home._

 

            His fingers slacken around the note and his shoulders droop, releasing tension he didn’t know was building up. Closing his eyes, he takes a small breath in through his nose, savoring the smell of water and life, without chemicals, or anything else to overpower it. It’s more comforting than Derek would have guessed.

 

            He picks the desk near his bed to home the statue, and uncaps the vial as instructed. Once the water is in, poured slowly as to not overflow or splash, it starts up without any electricity. The water runs through the whole thing continuously, without even the hum of a battery powered engine like it probably once had. All he hears is the sound of trickling water, organic and soothing.

 

            He watches it for a minute, enjoying the calmness it brings, before he moves to the kitchen to wash out the vial to return to Stiles, setting the note beside the statue. He leaves the vial on the table where he’ll remember it, and head back to his bed, planning on just calling it a night early, allowing his gift to bring him to sleep. He imagines that sleeping will actually be much easier with that around, now.

 

            When he comes back, he notices that the dragon has apparently opened its eyes and they glow a soft red, blinking sleepily at him in greeting. He stops at the sight of it, awake, but when it doesn’t respond further, he continues on, closer. They open wider with each step, but have an air curiosity rather than threat. He reaches out a hand before hesitating once more. Again, it does not react, and he then slowly strokes a tentative forefinger from the top of its head to the tip of its tail. Its eyes fall closed in contentment and from its nose, it lets out a puff of steam. It still feels like plastic, without temperature or anything to make it a truly living thing, but it’s also almost… nice to pet.

 

            He does so again, watching in fascination as its legs twitch underneath his fingers, claws clutching and releasing against the rock, the movement revealing small grooves. It acts quite… catlike, and Derek finds it funny that Stiles, someone who surrounds himself with wolves, would have the magical energy personified as… a feline.

 

            It fits him, though, Derek thinks, scraping a fingernail gently under the dragon’s chin, and watching it lift its head up for more scratching. He still probably won’t tell Stiles about that thought, though, if he can help it. Some things are better kept between a man and his gifted dragon, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> [original, beginning fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13538907) (as again, this is a [series](url) now!!)
> 
> reiterating from above, comment something nice about what you liked/want to see, and you never know what will come out of it! :)
> 
> thanks for reading, i really do appreciate everything from views to kudos (love those emails) to comments. you guys are great and i hope you have a fantastic day


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